Calendar Girl
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: It's Christmas, 1942, and Tom Branson and fellow members of his unit receive a special calendar to help "boost soldier morale" and remind the boys "what they're fighting for". While his friends gawk and howl at the various pin-up models, Tom can't stop gazing at the woman featured for his birth month, nor the connection he feels for this beautiful stranger.
1. Miss May

_My contribution for the month's "Rock the WW2 AU", as well as a special birthday present fic for **Pointless Things**!_

_This is a story that I hope to come back to later, so please consider this first chapter a *preview* to what will become, sometime later after I get a few other stories managed, a multi-chapter fic exploring Tom and Sybil's romance, set during the 1940's._

_I hope you enjoy! And special thanks to darlingsybil for the cover art to this fic, as well as to gothamgirl28 and rebeccathehistorian for their historical help with this fic! Please let me know what you think! And without further ado..._

* * *

><p><span><strong>Calendar Girl<strong>**  
><strong>_**by The Yankee Countess**_

_Chapter One  
>"Miss May"<em>

_Libya, December, 1942_

_ "I'm dreaming of a white…Christmas!  
>Just like the ones I used to know…!"<em>

"Oi! I'm sick and tired of that bloody song! Play something else!"

Tom couldn't help but chuckle at the "Scrooge-like" behavior of his friend and fellow private, who was busy sticking two fingers up in the air at the men who had been playing the record, before turning and stuffing a cigarette between his lips.

"Not in a 'holly jolly' mood, Jimmy?" Tom questioned.

Jimmy snorted and took a long puff on his cigarette, before joining his friends who were gathered around a very pathetic looking campfire. "The song's pointless since we're hardly in a place that can boast about having a 'white Christmas', not to mention that it's played ALL THE BLOODY TIME!" he shouted once more, in the direction of the merry-makers.

Tom couldn't help finding amusement in Jimmy's disdain of the popular Irving Berlin tune. "All the more reason to be dreaming about, then," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "And the yanks certainly love it."

Jimmy just rolled his eyes, before grimacing at the fire, taking note that it was producing more smoke than flames. "Alfred, let someone else do that—clearly you have no skills when it comes to basic camping."

Alfred frowned and glared back at Jimmy from where he was crouched. "It's not me, it's the wood! I think it's wet; did it rain earlier?

"What rain? We're in the middle of the desert—"

"Allow me," Tom interrupted, his years of being an older brother to two argumentative younger brothers, coming in handy to stop the quarrel. He removed a flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and quickly dispensed a little of its contents onto the wood, thus reviving the dying flames with a sudden burst.

Alfred toppled back slightly, but was already grinning at the growing fire, glad for its warmth. "Thanks, Tom—though I'm sorry you had to use—"

"Nah, it's alright—cheap whiskey; tastes more like piss to be honest," he frowned, before tucking the flask back inside his coat.

Jimmy chuckled at this. "And you have experience with that?" Tom shoved the younger man, who only continued laughing.

He couldn't help but chuckle himself. It was good to have something to laugh about, actually. And it was good, despite Jimmy's dislike of a particular song, to hear their fellow soldiers get caught up in the songs and memories of Christmas, in particular, Christmas back home. Tom couldn't help but sigh with some melancholy, and despite its ill taste, removed his flask once more and took a sip of the whiskey inside it, imagining (for the millionth time) what his mother and siblings were doing right now. Did they have the house decorated? His sisters always went a little overboard with the holly and the pine boughs, but it was nice, in the midst of cold, Irish winters, and the dull brown smog of Dublin's city streets, to see some green.

Their unit, part of the British 8th Army, had been fighting in North Africa for over a year. Since November, the 8th had been in pursuit of Axis forces across Libya, after defeating the "Desert Fox" in Second Battle of El Alamein. They had the upper hand now, and there was talk that their campaign could be a turning point for the war. Tom certainly hoped so; oh Lord, what he wouldn't give to see some green right now, especially the green of Ireland's emerald mountains.

"I thought deserts were supposed to be hot?" Jimmy shivered, pulling the collar up from his coat.

"You say that _every_ night," Alfred groaned in annoyance.

"Well I wouldn't want to disappoint you by not saying it tonight," Jimmy muttered back.

"See you got the fire going finally?"

The argument once again was brought to a close (thank heaven, Tom thought) when the three turned to the voice who had commented on their campfire.

Jimmy frowned at the sight of the young private. "William, what are you still doing here? Thought you were on Christmas leave?"

"Can't wait to be rid of me?" William teased. "Well I'll be gone soon enough," he broadly grinned, his mind clearly already at the place where he was traveling to. "On my way back to Yorkshire—"

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Jimmy groaned. "Back in Yorkshire with 'the sweetest girl in the whole wide world'," he mocked, his voice a higher pitch. "What was her name again? Lily? Tulip?"

"Daisy!" William muttered, flicking some dirt off the ground with his boot at Jimmy.

"Easy!" Jimmy muttered, the dirt just avoiding his cigarette. "I only have half a pack left—you know how hard it is to get these things now?"

William ignored him, but instead looked into the fire, a dreamy expression crossing over his face. "She's more than the sweetest girl—she's beautiful and talented and I'm going to marry her."

Tom looked at William, his eyes widening at the declaration. "So is that the purpose of this Christmas leave, then? Going home to propose to your girl?" Ah, how he envied the lad, he could not deny.

William blushed, but he couldn't help smiling at Tom's insightfulness. "Dad wants me to give her Mum's ring," he murmured. "Says that way, Mum will be with us when we marry."

Tom smiled back, though it was bittersweet. William's mother had passed away only a few months ago. He hadn't been there when it happened, and this would be his first return to Yorkshire since her passing.

"Will you be going to Downton while on leave?" Alfred asked William. It had been one of those strange coincidences; Alfred's aunt and William's sweetheart, both working at the same country estate in Yorkshire.

William nodded his head. "Daisy wants both the both of us, my father and I, to come to the big house for Christmas."

Tom couldn't help but snort a little at this. "Fine Christmas that will be; running upstairs and down, serving a bunch of posh—"

"Christmas at Downton is a little different from other houses," William interrupted. "The servants get Christmas Day to themselves; there's a big meal in the Servant's Hall, complete with crackers and presents," he grinned as he described the scene. "I got to attend once, years ago, when I first met Daisy," he reminisced.

"Alright, alright, don't rub it in," Jimmy muttered, flicking ash from his cigarette. "We're happy for you, truly, just remember that your friends will be here, freezing their arses off while huddled around a campfire for warmth, while you're cozy back in Yorkshire with your soon-to-be-missus."

William chuckled and opened his mouth to say something, but quickly leapt to attention, as did the rest of them, just as their staff sergeant came upon them.

"At ease, gentlemen, at ease…" Sgt. Bates instructed. "I've come for two reasons, one—" he turned to William. "—to inform Pvt. Mason that his transportation has arrived a bit early; we received a message that a storm is heading this way, so they want to get out before it hits."

William's eyes widened, but he couldn't help but smile at the "early Christmas present" the sergeant was giving him. Jimmy muttered "lucky bastard" under his breath, before putting on a smile for their friend's sake.

"Well…" William turned and looked at the rest of them. "I guess this is goodbye, for now."

"For now," Tom repeated. It was what they all said to each other; a silent promise to not do anything stupid like get themselves killed.

"Merry Christmas, you lucky git," Jimmy exchanged, laughing and giving William a hearty handshake that quickly became a brief bear hug. William laughed and said the same, before shaking Alfred's and Tom's hands as well. A jeep pulled up then, and William gave them all one last parting glance, before grabbing his bag and heading towards the waiting car.

"Give her a kiss from me, alright?" Jimmy teased, to which William responded with a two finger gesture of his own. They all laughed and waved as he was whisked away, off to spend a much happier Christmas than the rest of them, or at the very least, in a much more desired location.

"Well," Sgt. Bates drew their attention back. "As I said, that was one reason; the other reason…" he held up a box for the men to see. Tom, Alfred, and Jimmy frowned, and watched with curious eyes as Bates opened the box. "Just call me Father Christmas," he told them, a knowing grin on his face as he handed them each an item from the box.

"Notebooks?" Alfred asked, his brow still furrowed in confusion.

"Calendars," Sgt. Bates corrected. "Something to…'boost morale'."

Tom was also a little puzzled, and so he turned his calendar over to the front…and his eyes went wide. _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…_

"Merry Christmas, indeed!" Jimmy laughed, a high-pitched wolf-whistle escaping his lips as he began giving the calendar a quick flip through.

"Alright, alright, show a _little_ decorum," Sgt. Bates muttered, as he closed the box.

Jimmy simply continued grinning like an idiot. "And uh…who do we have to thank for this fine Christmas present?"

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know; was just told that some organization back in London had them printed up and sent to various units. Maybe Father Christmas thought you deserved something nice, for being such good boys and helping defeat Rommel."

Jimmy chuckled at that, while Alfred's eyes grew bigger and bigger with each passing photo.

"You look like a codfish, Nugent, close your mouth," Bates muttered, to which Alfred obeyed, not realizing that his jaw had been hanging open too. They saluted the sergeant as he went about his way to pass out more calendars to other troops, before going back and drooling over the lovely "English roses" that covered all twelve months. Or at least two of them did. Tom had yet to open his calendar, which Jimmy quickly took notice.

"Something wrong Branson?" he asked, his eyes aimed at the closed calendar the Irishman was holding.

Tom shook his head. "Don't see what all the fuss is about," he answered honestly.

Jimmy stared back at him. "Please tell me you're joking! We haven't seen a girl in months, let alone a girl in something like _this_!" He opened the calendar to a random month (Miss September) whose short skirt left _very_ little to the imagination.

"Aye, she's lovely," Tom could not deny. "But to each their own."

"To each their…what are you, a monk or something!?"

"Leave him alone," Alfred defended. "He's got a sweetheart—"

"_Had_ a sweetheart," Tom muttered, remembering all too well his sister's last letter, informing him that the reason Bridget hadn't been answering any of his letters was because she got married to Mickey fecking Monahan of all people. Fine, Bridget didn't love him anymore, fine, he surprisingly could accept that. But to know that she had married a Monahan brother, who had loved nothing more than tormenting him and making his life a living hell when he was a lad…that was below the belt.

"All the more reason to look then!" Jimmy laughed, before snatching Tom's calendar right out from his hands. "What's your birth month?"

Tom groaned and rolled his eyes. "Keep the calendar," he muttered, before turning to head back to his tent.

"Oi, what's your birth month!" Jimmy called back. "It's in the spring, isn't it? March?"

"No."

"April?"

"Goodnight Jimmy."

"May!?"

He didn't mean to pause, in fact it the pause in his step had been so brief, that if you blinked, you would have missed it. But Jimmy didn't blink, and he did take notice.

"Ah ha! May!" he flipped to the spring month, and another wolf whistle escaped his lips. "My, my, she _is_ stunning, I'll say that," he chuckled. "Though compared to Miss September, she's a bit more…'conservative'."

Tom shook his head and resumed his movements.

"Don't you want to see!?"

"Not really!" Tom called out from the entrance to his tent.

"Oh come on, you're not even a little curious?"

The tent flap closed and Tom wasted no time settling down on his cot and turning up the oil lamp so he could resume reading James Joyce.

"Liar," Jimmy laughed as his arm poked through the tent flap and threw the calendar down on top of Tom's chest, before scrambling away and out of sight before Tom could pursue him. Tom groaned and was tempted to pick up the calendar and throw it outside—however, the page was open to Miss May…and despite his original protest, he did look…and…he couldn't help but find himself agreeing with Jimmy, that yes…whoever she was, Miss May was indeed, stunning.

Cheeky too, at least that was what her smile looked like; cheeky and mischievous, and Tom couldn't help but smile back. She wore a red dress, one that stopped just below her knee. Red with white polka-dots, with matching shoes as well. Her pose was like that of other pin-up models, though he could see what Jimmy meant by "conservative", simply in the sense that her dress wasn't that revealing, but Tom always liked a little mystery when it came a woman.

One knee was bent in front of the other, the foot of her bent knee rubbing against the ankle of the other, in a demure but provocative manner. She had one hip popped slightly the right, and her hands were pressed on either side of her waist, a motion that not only accentuated her curves, but also made her look…empowering.

The dress was sleeveless, and had a low bodice, providing a somewhat tantalizing view of her cleavage, which Tom could not deny, looked rather…ample. No, he wasn't a monk by any means, but he couldn't deny, he felt his cheeks burn, and he quickly lifted his eyes from her breasts, moving now to her shoulders…and the creamy skin that was revealed thanks to the lack of sleeves.

Her hair was a dark brown, and flowed over her shoulders like silk. Tom's fingers actually twitched, a part of him longing to run through the glossy tresses to see if it felt as soft as it looked. Once again, his eyes were drawn back to her face…and he gazed at it for a long time, smiling back at her cheeky, mischievous smile…and losing himself in her beauty.

Was it his imagination? Or…was his heart beating a little faster?

No, no, she was just a pretty girl—_a beautiful woman_, he corrected, but still…she was just an image of some beautiful woman who posed for a calendar to "boost morale", as Sgt. Bates had said. He didn't know her, he didn't know anything about her, he didn't even know her name, outside of "Miss May".

…And yet in just that brief glimpse of her…he was fascinated.

Fascinated and curious. He wanted to know who she was, he wanted to know what her real name was, he wanted to know…

He wanted to know her.

Tom groaned and closed his eyes, a hand rising to cover them. _This is your lonely heart getting the better of you_, he told himself. _You're still sore after the news about Bridget, so you're just grateful for the distraction, that's all._

He opened his eyes once more and despite his better judgment, returned his gaze once again to the image of Miss May and her mischievous smile…and once again, found himself smiling back.

_It's just a picture. That's all. Nothing wrong with admiring a picture._

He swallowed and nodded his head, as if he had come to some great conclusion after a long, thoughtful argument. He took the calendar, and not bothering to look at any of the other photographs, propped it up against the wall of his tent so that Miss May was continuing to smile back at him, just like he saw many of his fellow soldiers do with photos of their sweethearts from back home. Just like he had once done with Bridget.

He turned on his side, his book forgotten, and he continued to gaze at Miss May, until the heaviness of his eyelids finally led him to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, the sounds of "White Christmas" playing somewhere beyond, in the camp.

That night when he dreamed, it wasn't Ireland, or his family, or even Bridget that filled his head. It was his lovely calendar girl, who for some reason in his mind, spoke with a rather posh English accent, her voice husky and sweet. She smiled back at him, and in a low voice, she whispered, "Merry Christmas, Tom."

* * *

><p><em>The Irving Berlin song<em> "White Christmas" _was made famous (both by being sung by Bing Crosby) as well as being connected to the popular film_ "Holiday Inn", _which was released in 1942, and the song was an instant hit, especially amongst soldiers fighting in WWII. Also, Tom is part of the British 8th Army-Ireland remained neutral throughout WWII, but many Irishmen volunteered to join Britain's various armies to fight the Axis powers. In 1942, Britain's armies were fighting predominantly in North Africa, and the 8th were behind a big victory for the Allies, in defeating Erwin Rommel and the Axis armies in Libya. _

_AGAIN! Thank you for reading, and please leave a review! More to come in the future, so if you enjoyed, please subscribe and follow!_


	2. Just a Picture

_Hello! So...anyone remember this story? *crickets chirping*_

_This story was written for January 2014's Rock the AU theme: WW2. I had posted the first chapter as a birthday present to **Pointless Things**, and then set the story aside so I could concentrate on finishing a few others. I've been wanting to write a second chapter for some time, and had hoped to post it on November 11, which in the US is "Veterans Day", but due to several circumstances, it's being posted a few days late. _

_There will be some "historical information" posted at the end of the chapter, but just to remind readers (since it has been a while), Ireland was neutral in WW2, but many Irishmen did join the British Army to fight, such as the British 8th, which is the army Tom belongs to, who fought mainly in North Africa. In the last chapter, Tom received a special "present", and finally in this chapter, we get to meet that mysterious "Miss May" ;o)_

_I hope you enjoy, and a shout-out to **everyhazyday** who has been *patiently* waiting for an update to this, and who (a very long time ago) requested this as a birthday present...so here it is...a very belated birthday update :oP THANKS FOR READING! Please share your thoughts!_

* * *

><p><span><em>Chapter Two<em>  
><em>"Just a Picture"<em>

_London, March, 1943_

There was a strange pounding…like bombs falling in the distance…

Sybil scrunched her face and tried to bury her head into her pillow. _It's all a dream, just a bad dream…_

The pounding continued, and Sybil slowly began to realize in her foggy state that it wasn't the memory of the Blitz, but…someone pounding on her door.

She groaned, especially as the pounding brought her back to the harsh light of day and her head immediately began to pound in pain. Oh Lord, how much had she drunk last night…? She made a face as she tried to recall the details of the previous evening. She and Gwen had gone to the pub, Gwen's beau Paul met them there, told them about a dance hall, they went to the hall, danced, drank some more—

A snore, like a fog horn, filled her ears.

Sybil's eyes widened…and she turned her head to look at her bed partner.

Oh God, what was his name again? John? James? Jack? He was a friend of Paul's…or Paul knew him…there was some kind of connection to Paul, that she did remember. He had asked her dance, she had let him buy her a drink, she remembered thinking he was handsome and funny at the time…

_"Sybil!"_

Gwen's voice was hissing at her from the side of the door.

Biting her lip and trying her best not to rouse her bedmate, Sybil slipped out from under the covers, grabbed her dressing gown and threw it over her body, before tiptoeing to the door and opening it a crack.

Gwen let out a sigh of relief at the sight of her friend. "You better come downstairs," Gwen whispered. "You have a visitor…"

That sounded ominous. "Alright…" Sybil whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the still sleeping American who had barely moved since she rose. Gwen's eyes followed and despite the seriousness to which she had come to Sybil's door, she couldn't help but giggle slightly at her friend's embarrassment. She wondered if Gwen had better memory about the previous night than she did?

Sybil shut the door and turned back to the room, moving not so quietly now as she began rummaging through her wardrobe for a clean set of clothes to wear. As she dressed, Jack…or John, or James, or…whoever, finally began to stir, groaning as he rolled over and groggily lifted his head, his dark hair sticking out in every direction.

Sybil forced a smile as he the American GI looked at her, somewhat disoriented. "Um…" he murmured, looking around at his unfamiliar surroundings with some confusion.

Sybil sighed and with her back to him, she did up the buttons on her blouse and answered his unspoken question. "This is my flat; you came back with us after we left the dance hall," she explained.

He scratched his head. "Us?" he asked, his accent thick. Ah yes, now she remembered; Justin from Brooklyn.

Sybil nodded, her back still to him as she now tucked her blouse into her skirt. "Yes, Gwen and Paul," she answered, before looking over her shoulder at him. He clearly had drunk a great deal as well if his mind was so foggy that he couldn't remember his friend.

"Oh!" Justin gasped, looking at Sybil with sudden recognition. "Silvia! Gwen's friend! The um…the 'posh one'," he chuckled, seeming to be pleased with himself for this memory.

Sybil's forced smile began to fade. "It's _'Sybil'_, actually," she reminded him, though she knew she had no right to be upset that he hadn't remembered her name when she was guilty of the same crime just a few minutes earlier.

"Right, right, 'Sybil'," he corrected, though he continued to grin like an idiot. "Last night was fun…"

Was it? She had a feeling he was just saying that to stroke his ego, as he seemed to have suffered the same memory lapse due to large consumptions of alcohol as she had.

She felt his eyes follow her as she crossed the room to retrieve a pair of slippers, deciding to forgo her stockings and shoes for the moment. "…And the fun doesn't have to end yet," he suggested in what she supposed was meant to be a seductive voice. She looked at him and saw that he was sitting up a little more, the blankets starting to fall away from his body.

Maybe if she didn't have a visitor waiting for her downstairs she would take him up on that offer, and see if he was every bit as funny and charming in the sobering light of day as she had found him to be the previous evening.

But it was not to be, and in all honesty, the headache that had begun to throb at Gwen's knocking was steadily getting worse.

"Yes, well…all good things must come to an end, I'm afraid," she sighed, bending down and retrieving what was obviously his shirt and trousers before turning and tossing them on the bed. "The loo is just through there," she pointed to a door off to the side, which adjoined both hers and Gwen's room. "I'll leave you to get dressed."

Justin's smile quickly faded. "Wait…_that's it?"_

_Oh please, don't be one of_ those _men_. It was all well and good for a man to "get his jollies" and see it as nothing more than a "bit of fun", but heaven forbid if a woman did likewise.

"I have a shift this morning at eleven," she explained.

Justin frowned and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. "That's two hours—"

"Someone's waiting for me downstairs," she groaned, her growing annoyance at his protests making her headache worse. "And I mustn't keep them waiting any longer."

"But—"

She shut the door behind her.

"Sorry," she heard a voice mutter over her shoulder. Gwen had been standing on the other side, leaning against the wall as she waited for Sybil to come out.

Sybil smiled at her friend and shook her head. "Don't be; it was what it was and the sad truth is, I barely remember any of it," she sighed.

Gwen reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "If he becomes a problem, Paul will sort him out."

At this Sybil smirked, which naturally caused Gwen to blush. Like Justin from Brooklyn, Paul was also an American GI (though he came from Little Rock, Arkansas), who had volunteered before the Yanks had officially gotten involved, coming to London shortly after the Blitz, and flying for the RAF. Paul had already received a medal for bravery, specifically coming to the rescue of several allied soldiers after their plane had been shot down, thus risking his own life and being shot at himself. Sybil met him when he was brought in to the hospital where she worked, and it was easy to see why he was a "favorite" amongst her fellow nurses, with his rugged good looks and charming smile (not to mention his southern twang). But he also had an easy-going nature, and in some ways, he reminded her of her cousin Matthew.

He met Gwen who worked as a secretary in administration, who had come to see him about answering a few questions for his medical files that the American government was demanding. Sybil had never really believed in "love at first sight", however there could be no denying the second Paul and Gwen clamped eyes on each other, the world seemed to have come to a standstill.

"How is Paul this morning?" Sybil asked, giggling as she watched Gwen's blush darken even more. Paul was on leave at the moment, which meant he was more or less an "unofficial" third tenant at Sybil and Gwen's flat. Thankfully, their landlady was very progressive woman (a former suffragette and Jazz Age flapper, based on the photographs she proudly displayed in her own flat next door to theirs), who conveniently "turned a blind eye" when it came to gentleman callers (especially those that spent the night).

"He's sleeping," Gwen answered, trying to look innocent. Sybil simply rolled her eyes, but grinned back. Perhaps that was why she had wanted to bring Justin from Brooklyn back to their flat last night? She was tired of lying there by herself, listening to the endless moans coming from Gwen's room?

"Anyway, you should prepare yourself," Gwen told her, her voice taking on a more serious edge as they descended the narrow staircase that would lead to their tiny parlor and kitchen.

Sybil paused and looked at her friend. Fear suddenly seized her heart and her knuckles went white as she gripped the banister. "Matthew?"

"Oh! Oh, no, Sybil, nothing like that," Gwen was quick to assure.

A sigh of relief left her chest and Sybil loosened her hold just a little. However, she found herself thinking who her "visitor" could be, and why she had to prepare herself for them?

She soon got her answer as she entered the kitchen and a tall, elegant woman who had been standing with her back to the stairs turned around and met Sybil's wide blue eyes, with a narrowed dark pair of her own.

_"Mary!?"_

Her sister lifted her chin and then looked over Sybil's shoulder. "Thank you, Gwen."

Gwen gave a little curtsey before murmuring, "milady," before turning to leave the two Crawley sisters alone, though not without giving Sybil's hand a quick squeeze of reassurance before going. Sybil was grateful for the gesture, because she had a feeling she was going to need all the courage she could get. Mary was one of the few, if perhaps the only person, to whom Sybil felt slightly intimidated by.

"Well…" Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and put on a smile, hoping she could mask her inner emotions the same way Mary could. "I…I must say, this is a surprise! I honestly can't remember the last time you popped down for a visit…"

Mary's answer was a simple lift of her left eyebrow.

The lump in her throat was turning into the size of a tennis ball. "Would you care for some tea?" she moved towards the stove then to put the kettle on. "I think I'll have a cup. So how long are you in London? Did you arrive recently? Are you staying with Aunt Rosamond? Have you—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, _enough!"_ Mary groaned, and without another word, she threw something down upon the kitchen table, the sound of which made a mighty smack, catching Sybil by surprise and even making her jump. "Do you have an explanation for _this_, Sybil? _DO YOU?!"_

Mary was pointing at the thing she had thrown down on the table, and Sybil followed her finger to…

_Oh._

A groan escaped her lips and Sybil closed her eyes and lowered her head.

Mary groaned as well. "I confess, I had hoped it was all a mistake; that you would say 'no, of course you hadn't purposefully posed in such a lewd manner and had no idea this thing even existed'—"

"Good grief, Mary, it's just a calendar!"

_ "JUST_ a calendar!?" Mary sputtered. "Sybil…_LOOK AT YOURSELF!" _

"I don't need to, I've seen it before!" Sybil retorted. "And…" she did look down then at the photograph and no doubt to her sister's horror, began to smile. "…I rather like it."

Mary closed her eyes and let out another groan, before sinking down into a chair. "Honestly, I don't know why I bother sometimes," she muttered. Sybil was tempted to reply _"I don't know why you do, either,"_ but chose against it. She loved her sister, but there were certain things—quite a few actually—that they would never truly see eye to eye on.

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip and glanced at her sister, before sinking down into the chair across from her. "So…" she began, her curiosity getting the better of her. "How did you find out?"

Mary glared at her, a look that would freeze a man's heart, but for Sybil, it always ignited her defiance. "Matthew," Mary muttered, an answer which surprised Sybil. _Cousin Matthew!?_

"Apparently they are being 'passed around' to all of the various troops," she muttered with disgust. "Something to 'boost morale', apparently."

Sybil bit her lip, trying her hardest not to laugh at her sister's obvious disdain.

"Really, Sybil, I am beyond shocked—you _truly_ did this? You purposefully posed in such a way for men to…to 'gawk' at you like some kind of…"

Sybil lifted an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. "Some kind of…?" she repeated, waiting for Mary to finish her sentence.

Mary glared at her. "You _know_ what I mean."

"Oh honestly, Mary," Sybil rolled eyes. "Have you seen the other pictures?"

"Yes, I have!" Mary hissed.

"Then you'll have noticed that my photograph is rather…" she chose her words carefully. "Rather…'tame'…when compared to some of the others."

"That doesn't matter—"

"You're right, it _doesn't_," Sybil interrupted. "Neither I or those other eleven women felt any shame in what we did. It was our own choice, and it was done of our own free will and…I stand by what I said earlier, I rather like my photograph, and…well, it was done for a good cause!"

At this, Mary looked skeptical. "Having your photograph taken so men can leer at you," she eyed Sybil with contempt. "And here I thought you took pride in 'women's rights'. Poor great-aunt Sybil; she must be rolling in her grave—"

"Men will leer at women regardless and oftentimes against their will, but I _chose_ to have that photograph taken, Mary, and again, I see and feel no shame whatsoever, and from the way you talk, you make it sound so much more…so much more 'perverse' than it is!" It was Mary's turn to roll her eyes, though Sybil knew, despite her sister's "shock and horror" at the discovered picture, what had really upset her and brought her to London.

"This isn't about the photograph, or not completely about the photograph," she challenged. "You're worried I'll bring 'shame' to the family."

Mary's eyes widened slightly, but she returned Sybil's gaze with a cool one of her own (and it wasn't missed by Sybil that her sister didn't argue otherwise).

"Poor Mama if she learned what you had done—and Papa! And it would kill Granny—"

"Now you're exaggerating," Sybil groaned, her headache getting worse. She rose then to fetch herself some aspirin. "Granny has weathered far worse…and I don't believe anything could have shocked the family more than when our great-aunt ran away her lady's maid—"

"Sybil!" Mary hissed, and at that, Sybil couldn't help but laugh. Mary frowned back at her, not seeing any humor at all in this ridiculous conversation. "Indeed, I can see what Granny means about you being 'aptly named'; you certainly have a flair for trouble it seems."

Sybil opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped short when the kitchen door opened and both she and Mary turned their heads and Mary gasped while Sybil groaned at the rather unkempt-looking soldier who chose that moment of all moments to enter the kitchen.

Justin came to a standstill as he realized Sybil wasn't the only one in the room, and his own dark eyes widened as he looked back at Mary (she had that effect on men), though they quickly lowered at the cold gaze she returned, along with the delicate yet lethal lift of an eyebrow (she had that effect on men too).

"I um…" he cleared his throat and turned his head to Sybil, looking embarrassed. "I had a good time!" he tried to sound cheerful, however his smile quickly melted at the sound of Mary's groan behind him.

Sybil blushed but nodded her head. "Yes," she simply replied. Though what she remembered (their time at the dance hall) probably wasn't what he was referring to.

Justin glanced back at Mary then back at Sybil and gave an awkward smile, before finally heading to the door. "Well…um…it was nice meeting you," he said to Mary who did not return the sentiment, before glancing at Sybil once more. "Hope to see you around…"

He sounded sincere and Sybil smiled back, though she didn't make any such promise to him. He probably was a decent man, and she was sad that she couldn't remember much about their evening together, but at the same time, she wasn't feeling overwhelmed with "romantic feelings of grandeur" either. It was what it was. "Goodbye," Sybil murmured to which Justin from Brooklyn nodded his head, before ducking out of the flat at last.

As soon as the door closed, Sybil turned her eyes to Mary and gave her sister a look of warning.

"What?" Mary asked innocently. "After everything else that I've learned recently, you expect _that_ to shock me?"

"It wouldn't stop you from casting judgment," Sybil muttered. "And besides, it's 1943, not 1913, and a woman—"

"Please spare me the lectures," Mary interrupted, her eyes going back to the calendar lying on the table. "It's only a matter of time, you know…"

Sybil looked back at the calendar and knew what her sister was going to say. It was only a matter of time before her family learned the truth. Or someone went to her father and commented how "Miss May" looked very similar to a certain Lady…

"You're lucky it was Matthew who made the discovery," Mary mumbled. "He could have gone straight to Papa, but he didn't. He came to me and told me—"

"Over dinner?" Sybil asked, batting her eyes at her sister and puckering her lips just so.

"Stop it," Mary hissed. "I thought you had gotten over that silly notion by now? There is _nothing_ between myself and Matthew!"

_Me thinks the lady doth protest too much…_

"And you're lucky he told me and not Edith! She could never keep a secret," Mary grumbled. At that, Sybil simply rolled her eyes; she was no stranger to the ongoing battle between her older sisters. That hadn't been the reason to why she left Downton for London, but it was certainly a perk.

"So what do you want me to do?" Sybil sighed. "Keep quiet and pretend none of this happened? Demand possession of every calendar so that they can be destroyed?" Not even the Earl of Grantham, despite what he thought of himself, was _that_ powerful. "Or did you come here with hopes of whisking me back to Yorkshire so that I can tell them over tea?"

"Really, Sybil, this is nothing to joke about—"

"On the contrary, I believe it is! Because you are making mountains out of mole hills!" She pointed once again at the calendar. "It's a tasteful photograph, and I continue repeating what I said before…I have no shame!"

"Then WHY not say anything!?" Mary hissed. "Say how you 'unashamed' you are until you're blue in the face, it cannot hide the fact that you had no intention of letting any of us know!"

Mary had her there. Sybil knew the real reason why she hadn't said anything, because she knew her father would throw a fit and do everything in his power to stop the calendars from being produced. _It's just a picture, why all the fuss?_ It was a question she had been asking herself many times, even when she had agreed to have the photograph taken. She could tell herself all she liked that it was done out of a sense of "patriotism", and after serving as a nurse these last three years, she understood the necessity of "boosting morale" for the men who were fighting. But if she were honest with herself…truly, truly honest…she knew that the reason she had done it, had agreed to have her picture taken and appear in such a medium was yet another step in declaring her independence from her old life, the life where she was "Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter to the Earl of Grantham".

"Sybil…" Mary's voice drew her back. "I know you think I'm a snob," Sybil opened her mouth to protest, but Mary held her hand up to stop her. "Don't lie, dearest, you're not very good at it anyway," she went on. "However, I will say in my own defense, that I stood in your corner when you announced you were going to London to serve as a nurse, despite Mama and Papa's protests. I sang your praises in their ears, talking about 'all the good you would do' for the soldiers recovering there, and so forth. I did it because I knew you wanted to get away, I knew you longed for a 'different life', and really, you were so determined to go anyway, I did what I could to 'soften the blow'," she sighed.

Sybil felt a touch of guilt at Mary's words. While she knew her sister didn't entirely approve of the life she had chosen to live, her sister hadn't tried to stop her either. And yes, Mary had done a great deal to "defend her choices" to their parents, both of her sisters had. If truth were told, it was her sisters whom she missed the most about her old life at Downton. Yet despite that, she still believed deep in her heart that she wouldn't have been happy staying there, doing the sorts of things young ladies of their station were expected to do, all the while waiting for some man to sweep in and propose marriage to her. She wanted work, she wanted a real job, she wanted to live independently and make a difference if she could, and so when Gwen announced in the autumn of 1939 that she was leaving service and going to work as a secretary in London, Sybil knew this was her chance. She'd go with her, attend a nursing college in the city, and the two of them would get a flat together, just as they had always laughed and talked about during Sybil's teenage years. It was not without difficulty, of course, and her family had tried to interfere on several occasions in the past, her father going so far as to threaten to come down and drag her back himself. But thanks to both Mary and Edith, at least as of late, she had been left to her own devices with barely any interruption.

"All I'm saying, Sybil…" Mary sighed, rising from her chair and facing her with a serious expression, "is that it would be a terrible shame to waste everything you have accomplished on some silly photograph."

Sybil lifted her chin, her stubbornness only digging in further. "I agree…and it would be a terrible shame to turn this 'silly photograph' into something it isn't!"

Mary lifted a brow at this. "Oh? And what is that?"

Sybil groaned. "From the way you go on, you would think it was an 'act of war'."

Mary lifted her other brow. "An interesting choice of words," she murmured, before picking up her purse. "But _not_ an exaggeration."

Sybil frowned as she watched her sister turn towards the door. "I'll be in town until tomorrow; I'm having luncheon with Sir Richard and yes, to answer your previous question, I am staying with Aunt Rosamond. I hope you will consider coming by for dinner if your schedule allows."

Sybil didn't answer; she honestly wasn't sure if she wanted to carry on this conversation, especially with their aunt present. Yet whether she saw her sister again or not while she was still in London, Mary had indeed made her point: it was only a matter of time before the truth about the calendar was learned by the rest of the Crawleys.

"Syb?"

She turned her head back towards the kitchen door after seeing Mary out and saw Gwen looking in, nibbling her bottom lip.

"Coast is clear," she told her friend, while putting on a reassuring smile for her benefit. Gwen's posture immediately relaxed and she looked over her shoulder, mumbled something, before entering the kitchen, with Paul following right behind.

"Mornin'," Paul greeted in his American southern drawl, a sheepish smile on his face. Paul had met Mary once and later admitted to Sybil that he found her rather intimidating. "Hey, Sybil, I'm sorry if Justin—"

Sybil shook her head, giving him a friendly smile as well as a friendly squeeze to the shoulder. "If you see him, please offer my apologies for the rather…awkward morning."

Paul returned her smile with understanding and Sybil knew that was the end of the discussion.

"Did Lady Mary come because…?" Gwen's eyes fell to the open calendar that was still lying in the middle of the table.

Paul started chuckling at this. "Sorry, I just still can't get over that…the way y'all call each other: 'Lady Mary', 'Lady Sybil'…"

Gwen poked him in the chest, and Paul happily fell back into a chair. "I'm not a 'Lady'," she mumbled, though in a playful tone, one which Paul recognized, because the next thing Gwen was squealing as he pulled her down onto his lap.

"Ah darlin', you're the grandest lady of them," he chuckled, his lips nuzzling her neck, causing Gwen to squirm and laugh at the way his morning stumble tickled her skin.

Sybil smiled at her friends, and turned a discreet eye, focusing instead on the kettle she had originally planned to use to make tea when she first entered the kitchen. She found herself agreeing with Paul, it was strange to hear Gwen refer to Mary as "Lady Mary" or "milady" when she couldn't remember the last time Gwen had addressed her in such a way. At the hospital, she was simply known as "Nurse Crawley", and amongst her friends, she was simply "Sybil".

Whether it was the war, or just simply living away from Downton, Sybil found it very easy to forget about that other life she once had. This was perhaps why Mary's surprise visit, as well as the warning with which she brought in regards to the family's reaction when upon learning about the calendar, had shaken her so.

"So what are you going to do?"

Sybil turned her head back to Gwen who remained perched on Paul's knee, but who was looking at her with both curiosity and concern.

Sybil sighed and folded her arms across her chest. "I suppose Mary's right, I should tell them; not saying anything only makes it look like I have something to hide or that I'm ashamed, when I'm truly not." She glanced at the calendar, at her photograph for the month of May in her red and white polka-dot dress, her dark brown hair looking thick and glossy, her smile and pose quite cheeky…

She smiled, before returning her gaze to Gwen. "It's just a picture," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. "And that's exactly how I'll approach it; just a picture, and nothing more." She reached down and picked up the calendar, closing it before returning her attentions to the tea kettle which was starting to steam. "Besides, I highly doubt anyone's noticed."

* * *

><p><em>North Africa, March, 1943<em>

It was a ritual, something all of them went through before battle. Prayers were whispered, the last letter from home was re-read, and the weathered photographs of wives and sweethearts were gazed upon, before being tucked once again inside coats and shirts to rest against one's heart, which was beating rapidly in both fear and anticipation.

Things were looking positive for the Allies thanks to the 8th Army's continued pursuit of the defeated Axis across Libya. A month ago they had reached the Mareth defensive line on the Tunisian border. Now, they were preparing to strike, to launch an assault on the line in hopes of reclaiming the territory from the Axis, who were ready to defend it with all that they had.

Tom had said his prayers, the paint practically gone from the number of times he held the beads of his rosary. He had re-read his mother's last letter, sure he had it memorized, but re-read it just the same. And now…that final step of the ritual, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the creased picture of a girl he knew nothing about, not even her name…but whose beautiful smile had been his companion for several months now.

_ Miss May._

"We're going to get through this…" he heard a voice murmur next to him. Tom looked up from Miss May's smiling face to the man who stood beside him. William was trembling, his feet restlessly moving beneath him, his fingers fidgeting as they held his rifle while he looked straight ahead at the line they were preparing to strike. "We have to get through this…" he mumbled, not turning to Tom but clearly speaking to him. "We have to," he repeated. "Daisy and I are getting married when I next get back."

Tom's heart went out to his friend, and he reached over to squeeze William's arm, hoping to provide the young soldier with what courage and hope he could offer.

William glanced at him and gave him a thankful smile, nodding his head but saying nothing more. And really, nothing more needed to be said, they had all been in this place before; today…this moment…could be their last.

Tom returned his gaze once more to Miss May, his thumb tenderly brushing over her lovely cheek. Without taking his eyes off her, he found himself silently offering up another prayer. _I know it sounds mad…but please…don't let me die before I learn her name…that's all that I ask._

A bark was heard overhead, and both William and Tom lifted their heads to Sgt. Bates' voice. It was time…

Swallowing down the nervous lump in his throat, Tom tucked Miss May's picture back inside his jacket, pressing it against his heart along with his mother's letter and his rosary. His fingers gripped the rifle and he took several long, deep breaths…

Then the order was given.

And Tom, along with the rest of the 8th, let out a war cry, before charging.

* * *

><p><em>On March 19, 1943, the British 8th engaged the Axis armies (who they had been fighting and pursuing across North Africa since November 1942) on the Tunsian border in what is known as The Battle of Mareth Line. The 8th, along with several other Allied troops, would go to win this battle (which lasted till the end of the month), but there were heavy casualities, especially at the beginning.<em>

_THANKS AGAIN FOR READING!_


End file.
